I’d known Nick since first grade, just like Sam. They’d been best friends. Nick had always been nice to me, but we didn’t hang out or even talk. Even if Nick had wanted me as a friend, I always felt like Sam stood in the way of that. At school, Sam didn’t need me anymore, and he was always finding ways of blocking me from his small circle—the athletic kids. So hearing that Nick would be at this tennis camp didn’t give me much comfort.
“I don’t know.”
“It’s all settled.” Mom sounded like she was angry with me, like she’d reached the last straw about something. “Put your shoes on, we’re going shopping for a racket.”
In the car she drove faster than usual. She even cursed under her breath when she had to stop at a red light.
“Mom, what’s wrong?”
“What?” she said, snapping to my attention.
“Did I do something wrong? Is that why you’re sending me to camp?”
Her eyes softened. “Oh, no, honey. No, it’s nothing like that. It’s just that . . . these past few weeks have been tough. For all of us. Just sitting around the house, waiting for news. I think we’re all going a little crazy. And when Mrs. Lanzano told me about the tennis camp for beginners, I thought it would be something for you to do, that’s all.” Mrs. Lanzano was a lawyer, and Mom had done some clerking for her firm, so they were becoming friends.
“Okay,” I said.
And so a few days later Mom dropped me off at the tennis courts at the University. It was August then, even hotter than July. There were about fifteen other kids there, and we all stood around holding our rackets, awkwardly as beginners do, while two guys in their twenties, assistant coaches on the University team, taught us the basics: feeding us ball after ball, showing us the proper way to hit a forehand, then a backhand, on to volleys, then the serve.
On that first day, Nick and I didn’t say much to each other. I hadn’t seen him since the end of school. He seemed taller. He had dark hair and these heavy eyebrows, olive skin. He sort of intimidated me. One of those kids—like Sam—who exuded confidence, who was good at sports, who got a lot of attention from girls. I just blended into the group and focused on the tasks at hand. Afterward, the two coaches took us aside—just Nick and me—and told us that we were both naturals. That we had great hand-eye coordination, which was a shock to me because I’d never been good at any sport—not soccer, not basketball, not football, not even T-ball. But tennis felt like something I might master. There was a satisfaction, a challenge, about manipulating that little ball around a box with clearly defined boundaries. And I enjoyed the distraction. For the first time in weeks, I hadn’t thought about Sam all day.
The next day, Nick asked if I wanted to come over sometime and play video games after camp. I didn’t really like video games, but I wanted to hang out with Nick—to spend as much time as possible away from home. Away from the sight of Sam’s house.
Nick’s family had recently moved to the other side of town—the side of town where we eventually moved, too. That day I’d brought an extra change of clothes. Once changed, we plopped in front of the couch and fired up the video game. I forget what the game was, but I was horrible at it. Instead of ridiculing me, or laughing, as Sam would have done, Nick tried to show me the tricks, explaining things patiently.
“You’ll get the hang of it,” he said.
When we reached a good stopping place (the game seemed to have no end point), Nick got us some Cokes and a bag of Doritos. We sat back down on the couch and ate and watched TV.
Out of nowhere, Nick said, “Do you think Sam is dead?”
“I don’t know,” I said after chewing a mouthful of Doritos, wiping the red dust on my shirt. My belly started churning. I wasn’t too crazy about having to think about Sam. Especially when associated with the word dead.
“I think he is,” Nick said.
“I was with him, the day he went missing. I was the last person to see him—” I stopped myself before saying the word alive.
“You were?” Nick looked at me. “For real?”
“Yeah.” I could tell Nick found this fascinating, the way he fixed his total attention at me. I felt like I had prestige, being so connected to such a melodramatic story. I told him an abbreviated version, changing some of the details—like not mentioning the soda being tossed at me, the name that was called out, instead saying I just fell off my bike. I told him how Sam laughed at me. I felt a twinge of guilt, saying it—like now that he had vanished, like now that maybe something bad had happened to him, I should just forget that he had ever been a jerk.
“Wow,” Nick said. “I mean, did the police interview you, since you were the last one to see him?”
“Yeah, they interviewed me a bunch.”
A moment of silence, as if Nick were taking all this in. I expected him to keep asking questions, but instead he said, “Can I tell you something?”
“Sure.”
“I don’t like him much. I mean, I didn’t like him period, or whatever.”
“I thought you were best friends.”
“Maybe he thought so. I don’t know. There were times when he was fun and cool, you know? But sometimes he was just, I don’t know . . . He could be mean. And he was a liar.”
“He could be mean.”
“He stole a baseball of mine. A signed one that I got at a Braves’ game.”
“He did?” I tried to recall if I’d ever seen a baseball in his room, if he’d ever shown that off, but I couldn’t remember anything.
“Yeah, totally. He swore that he didn’t steal it, but I know he did. Plus, he took money from my wallet once. A twenty-dollar bill. Can you believe that?”
“That’s horrible.”
“That kid could be a real asshole,” Nick said.
“Yeah,” I said, but already I felt guilty. Sam was gone, unable to defend himself.
“He always said you were lame.”
“He did?”
Nick nodded. “Yeah, but forget it, man. Hey, you want to go to the University pool tomorrow after tennis? My parents have a membership.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That would be fun.”
“Cool.” Nick flipped the video game back on from where we’d paused it. But before we got going, Nick said, “I mean, I hope Sam’s not dead. Don’t get me wrong. But I don’t miss him. I’m kind of glad he’s gone. But don’t tell anyone, okay?”
Over the next few days we continued with the tennis camp, then hung out afterward. Even after camp officially ended, we met up to practice, and we kept hanging out at his house. By the end of the summer, just before we started sixth grade, I guess we were on our way to being best friends. To be honest, I hadn’t had many friends before that, not real friends anyway. That September, I felt like I was a new person. Like Sam had never existed. It got easier and easier to forget about him.
===
The afternoon after the Homecoming game, I’m up in my room doing homework when Mom knocks on the door. “Come in,” I say.
“So,” she says. Her face looks weird—nervous, like she has bad news. “Diane Manderson just called. Sam’s mom.” She pauses, waiting for me to say something, but I just stare at her. “The local news is doing some kind of follow-up story, now that Sam is settled back home. They want Sam to be around old friends, family—that sort of thing. She asked if we would come. She said Sam specifically asked if you could come.”
I stare at her for a minute. “Really?” I think back to last night, the way Sam had stared in that funny way—like he was desperate for something from me.
“If you’re not comfortable going, I can tell her—”
“I’ll go,” I say.
Mom looks a little surprised. “Okay,” she says, sounding uncertain. She comes over and pats my back as I sit at my desk. “You’re a good boy,” she says before she leaves.
I’m not sure w
hy I agreed to go so quickly. I guess, in a weird way, I want to see him up close, to talk to him. It’s curiosity more than anything.
===
We drive over the next day after lunch. It’s sunny out, but chilly and windy. I haven’t been back to Pine Forest since we moved away. When we drive up, the houses, the yards—they all look smaller, shabbier, like after we left things just fell apart. Dad parks along the curb. There’s already a Channel 4 news truck parked there, and a few other cars. I wonder who else is coming. Surely Nick was invited, but I haven’t heard anything from him. He’s probably doing something with Sarah. At the dance, I saw them making out in a corner before one of the chaperones broke them up. All I did with Madison was give her a hug good night.
Inside, everyone is gathered in the living room—Mrs. Manderson; Beth; that lady Mrs. Sykes from next door; a tall baldish man and a woman with a bob of gray hair and their little girl, who looks to be about eight or nine; Mrs. Tomek, from a few doors down, and her son, Ruben, who’s like ten or something now. And then there’s Sam, sitting on the couch—the only one sitting—looking like his mind is miles away.
“So glad you could make it,” Mrs. Manderson says, coming over to hug Mom and Dad. Again, she’s all smiley, like a totally new person, not the grouch I remember. Her hair is grayer now. She always seemed so much younger than Mom and Dad, but now they all seem the same age.
“Glad to be here,” Mom says. I see her glance over at Sam. She walks to him and he snaps to attention, stands and greets her with a hug, and then he shakes Dad’s hand. It’s all formal but friendly, slightly uncomfortable. I mean, what do you say in this situation? Welcome back from your imprisonment? So glad you’re not dead?
Sam walks over to me, his hands in his pockets. This time he’s not smiling. “Hey, Josh. I’m glad you could come over,” he says, like reading from a script. His eyes look dewy and red, like maybe he’d been crying just before we got here.
“Me too,” I say, wondering why he looks sad. Like, isn’t he happy to be home? I thought he’d be smiling nonstop.
I get introduced then to the other people. The baldish man is their lawyer, Mr. Walker, and he’s here with his wife and daughter. I say hello to Mrs. Sykes, to the Tomeks. I look over at Beth. She’s quiet, staring off like she finds this whole situation mortifying.
“Guys,” Mr. Walker says, “the film crew wants us to be outside, sort of acting normal.”
Acting normal. I hear Beth let out a quick laugh that sounds like “huh.”
“Maybe the kids can kick the soccer ball around?” Mr. Walker suggests.
Mrs. Manderson looks over at Sam. “Is that okay, honey?”
He just nods. “I’ll get the ball in my room.”
“I have it in my room,” Beth says. “I’ll get it.”
We all go outside. The front yard is large and triangular, on the corner lot, with an oak tree that provides shade to just a small part of the yard. Ruben and Sam head onto the grass with the ball. I know I’m expected to join in, but I hate soccer. Over by the driveway I see the news reporter, in a black skirt and white shirt, her hair all shellacked, and she heads over with her microphone, while a scruffy guy fiddles around with his camera.
Beth stands next to me on the porch. She says, “This is a joke.”
I don’t say anything back. I watch as Ruben kicks the ball to Sam. The ball sails past him and for a second he just watches it, like he’s confused about what he’s supposed to do, but then he breaks into a run and goes for it.
“We don’t even really know that man, Mr. Walker. I’d never met his wife and daughter until today. They just wanted people here. Mom asked all of Sam’s old friends to come over for this. Nick. Max. Some others. And not a single one of them would come. They all had excuses.” We both watch as Sam kicks the ball right to Ruben, a smooth grounder. I think about Sam’s eyes, how sad they looked earlier. But now, running around, he seems happy. I can see him smiling as he chases the ball.
“I’m here,” I say.
I step off the porch and walk out onto the lawn to join them. Everyone else just stands aside and watches us like we’re doing something fascinating. Sam has the ball and kicks it over to me, and I’m able to stop it and kick it back to him. I don’t think I look too spastic, but who knows. It’s better than standing around. And honestly, after a while it starts to seem natural, the three of us aimlessly kicking the ball, like we’re totally unaware that this is being filmed for some sort of “feel good” story on the local news.
The cameraman eventually sets his camera down—I guess he has all the footage he needs. Even though he’s stopped filming, we keep kicking the ball. Beth is still staring from the porch. Even from this distance, I can see that she’s frowning. The adults are all talking to one another, and Mr. Walker and Sam’s mom are dealing with the TV people. Ruben’s mother calls him over, tells him it’s time to go home. So then it’s just the two of us. Sam dribbles the ball over to me.
“We can stop if you want,” he says. His hair is pasted to his forehead and a film of sweat coats his face.
I’m sweaty, too, and a little winded, so I say, “Okay.”
We both look toward the house, toward the reporter, who’s now interviewing Mrs. Manderson as the cameraman films.
“I haven’t played in so long.”
“You can’t tell,” I say. You should try out for the team, I want to say, but I don’t. I don’t know if Sam will even come back to school.
We’re silent for a few seconds, just standing there, then Sam says, “I knew you’d come.”
I turn and meet his eyes. He looks down at the soccer ball, then back up. He says, “We’re connected, you and me.”
I glance at Beth. She’s watching her mother, who’s still talking to the camera. Beth and I are connected, too, I guess. We all are—by that day, all those years ago. “Yeah,” I finally say.
Sam drops the soccer ball and dribbles away. He’s kind of gangly, but still there’s a grace in the way he moves around the yard. He kicks the ball up and then bounces it on his head a few times, before it rolls off into the grass.
Sam’s okay, I think. Anyone who can do that is fine. He heads back my way. He doesn’t say a word, but he comes to a stop right next to me. He’s a little too close. I can hear his breathing. I feel like he’s about to say something else, so I steal the ball from Sam and start dribbling away from the adults, away from Sam, toward the farther reaches of the yard, past the oak tree, almost to the curb. I hear Sam chasing after me, laughing, and he finally steals the ball back, snatching it from my feet so that I almost trip. But I catch myself and stop, and he turns around after running a bit and stares over at me. He looks triumphant and happy, smiling wide, his face flush, his chest heaving, just a normal boy having fun with his friend. Maybe his only friend in the world.
We’re connected, you and me. It only dawns on me just then that this wasn’t a question. It was a fact.
CHAPTER 5
The Famous Beth Walsh
Beth
Instead of parking in the student lot in back of school, I park in one of the lots near the athletic fields. It’s a longer walk, but I don’t care. It’s my first day back since Sam returned. After New York, I told Mom I didn’t feel well. I fake-sicked my way through Homecoming week. But I knew I’d have to go back eventually, and so here I am now, walking through the front doors.
I plan to head right to my locker and then homeroom, but the assistant vice principal, Mr. Bishop, carries his walkie-talkie at his side and walks up to me and tells me it’s so good to see me. Welcome back.
He’s never said a word to me before.
“Okay, thanks,” I say.
And then it’s my classmates—a bunch I don’t even know that well—smiling at me, saying hello, they are so happy for me and my family, what a miracle. Two juniors fist-bump me. We saw you on TV, omigod, what was it
like meeting Helen Winters?
I clear through the crowd and beeline up the stairs to my locker, keeping my eyes on the floor. But when I get there, my locker’s insane. It looks like a shrine. There’s stuff taped to the door—envelopes, scrawled messages on Post-its and notebook paper. There’s more stuff on the floor surrounding the locker—a few stuffed animals, some gift bags, candy bars, even a tiny bundle of wilted flowers. What on earth.
Chita’s standing by my locker. She usually greets me with some sarcastic remark, like, “Another day in paradise.” But today she has this weird smile on her face. “We waited for you in the parking lot,” she says gently, like she’s talking to a shy kid.
“I parked somewhere else today.” I don’t want to explain why.
She reaches in and hugs me, which is not how we greet each other normally. It’s weird, and unsettling, and I just want her to act normal. I look back at my locker and say, “What is all this?”
“All your best friends in the world,” she says, clearing her throat, “welcoming you back.” There’s sarcasm in her voice, and she sounds like herself finally.
I keep staring at all that stuff. I know I’m supposed to be grateful, but really I feel like I’m under attack.
“I can help you with it, if you want?” she says. She bends down and picks up a stuffed animal frog and brings it up close to my face. “Ribbit.”
I start turning the locker combination.
“So, why didn’t you call me? Why didn’t you return any of my messages?” She sounds weird again, needy and sad. “Ainsley and Darla, too,” she continues. “Nobody heard from you. We were worried.”
I pull the locker open. Some more notes have been shoved through the slots, but otherwise it’s how I left it that afternoon before I snuck off with Donal, which feels like it happened years ago.
“Sorry,” I say.
“You don’t have to be sorry,” she says, but I can tell she still wants an explanation. She pats me on the shoulder and keeps her hand there.
We Now Return to Regular Life Page 9